


The Case of the (Very) Small Mycroft

by suitesamba



Series: Knight Magic [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: De-aging, Humor, M/M, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:19:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: Sherlock and John are going about the very important business of getting ready for Sherlock's Muggle Crime Solving Class at Hogwarts when Harry Potter appears at their door with a surprise: a de-aged Mycroft Holmes who would much rather be with his Mummy than at their quite unsanitary flat. A short story in three chapters to illustrate that magic, while useful, sometimes brings unpleasant things one's way.





	1. Mini-Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the Knight Magic series - in which Sherlock and John are wizards, but John has left the Wizarding world voluntarily, while Sherlock deleted magic. They're paved over those old hurts, and Sherlock has completed a stint as the Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts.

“Thirty minutes, John!”

“Actually, I think I’ll stay home today,” John said as Sherlock reminded him of their scheduled departure time for Hogwarts. “This place is a shambles. We’re not only out of milk – we’re out of everything, and Mrs. Hudson’s birthday is tomorrow and someone’s got to get her a gift and make that shortbread she likes so much.”

He looked at Sherlock significantly, giving him the opportunity to assure him that an appropriate and thoughtful birthday gift was already purchased and wrapped and the shortbread mixed up and in the oven.

“But we’re doing the locked room scenario today,” Sherlock protested. “The students have been looking forward to it for weeks now, and I need you to be one of the bodies. It isn’t much fun for them if I make them lie on the floor for the entire class period.”

“It isn’t much fun for me, either,” John said. Lying on the cold stone floor of the Great Hall at Hogwarts for two hours while students rolled him around, lifted his limp arm, and prodded at his chest did not a pleasant morning make. And to think he’d been the one to encourage Sherlock to continue his Muggle Crime Solving class on weekends after his stint as stand-in Hogwarts Muggle Studies Professor had ended in June.

“You can handle it without me,” John assured him. “I bet Hagrid would love to be a corpse. And whatever you do - please stay in Minerva’s good graces. She’s threatened to ban you from the castle unless I’m there to babysit.”

“She’s being ridiculous. I certainly don’t need baby….”

He was interrupted mid-sentence by heavy footsteps on the stairs followed by a firm rap on the door and a loud high-pitched shriek.

John glanced at Sherlock, who shrugged, looking quite as perplexed as John did.

“Client?” Sherlock mouthed.

“John? Sherlock? You might want to hurry – ”

“Harry?” John hurried over and looked through the peephole, then quickly opened the door.

Harry Potter, dressed to move invisibly about London in casual Muggle clothing, slipped inside, tugging a small child by the hand. The child was nattily dressed in pressed trousers and cashmere jumper and pulled against his hand aggressively.

“Hello John, Sherlock,” Potter said, his demeanor midway between professional and friendly. “I’m afraid we have a bit of a situation and we need your help.”

“I don’t need _help_ ,” the child stated, folding his arms in front of him and glaring at Harry. “I need my _MUMMY_!”

“And I’ve already explained to you that your Mummy had a family emergency and can’t be with you for a few days. So I’ve brought you here instead, because your Mummy and Daddy chose them as their emergency back-ups. You’ll be staying here until your Mummy comes back. Sherlock and John will take good care of you.”

“But I don’t know them!” exclaimed the child in a high-pitched and petulant voice. “They’re _strangers_! And this flat is _dodgy_!”

“I’m sorry,” Potter murmured as the little boy clung to his leg and continued to wail. “The Minister insisted I bring him here – we’ve had a bit of a scuffle down there and – well, really, there’s no way to soften this one up, is there?”

“No.” Sherlock had connected the dots and looked absolutely horrified. “Take it away. We – I – we can’t. Can’t. Not equipped. No cheesy mac anywhere in site. And we’re just now leaving for my class. In fact, we’re late. Take him to the Wesleys – they’ll hardly notice another stray child lying about.”

“He means the Weasleys,” John said, frowning at Sherlock, then giving Potter the same disapproving look. “Could someone please tell me what’s going on?” he demanded as the child plopped himself on the floor, covered his ears with his small hands, and began chanting “I can’t hear you I can’t hear you I can’t hear you.”

They all stared at him a moment, then Sherlock turned his glare on Potter.

“I have no idea how this happened but please take him back to the Ministry, reverse it and … no. Better yet, take him back to the Ministry and find him a new family.”

“He already has a family, Sher….”

“No he doesn’t! He’s what? Five and a half? Perhaps six? I’m seven years younger than he is. SEVEN YEARS! I’m not even _born_ yet! He has no idea who I am!”

And with that, the puzzle pieces clicked together.

“Oh no. This - . No. He’s not…” John gazed down at the child, then back up at Potter, the horrified look on his face melding with one of intense and utter amusement and making him look like he had escaped lock-up in the psych ward.

“I’m afraid he is. Look – I don’t have a lot of time. They’re expecting me back at the Ministry to debrief the Potions Master and curse breaker they’ve brought in to try to undo this. It was – well, it was just bad luck. One of our junior Aurors was apprehending a suspect in the Ministry atrium and a bit of a duel erupted. Mr. Holmes was late to a meeting and wasn’t paying attention. Listen – I’ll explain it all later. Have to run!”

John reached out to stop him, but Harry Potter wasn’t the Head of the MLE for no reason at all. He was gone with hardly a whisper of a crack, and John’s finger tips brushed empty air where Harry had stood seconds before.

The child on the floor – a much younger but equally annoying version of Mycroft Holmes – had dropped his hands from his ears and was staring wide-eyed at John and Sherlock.

“Where’d he go? Where’s Harry?” he asked, his little face screwing up in concern. “He can’t leave me _here_! I don’t _know_ you!” He stood up with sudden resolve, put his hands on his hips and stomped his right foot in its diminutive dragon-hide boot. “Take me to Mummy NOW!”

“Mother of Merlin I can’t do this,” exclaimed Sherlock, fleeing to the bedroom.

“Mother of Merlin?” repeated John. Sherlock was beginning to sound like a legitimate wizard. 

“Merlin didn’t have a mother, actually,” said the child, rather primly. “Don’t you have his Chocolate Frog card?” He gave an exaggerated sigh and picked a spot of lint off of his tidy little blue jumper, then took a moment to study the sitting room. “Why do you have a skull on the mantel? That’s rather macabre, isn’t it? And who’s been cursing the wall?”

“It’s Sherlock’s skull and we have it because he talks to it when no one else will because some of us actually like to sleep. Yes, it is rather macabre. And as for the wall - that would be Sherlock too,” John answered, whipping his head around to stare at their bedroom door a second later when he heard the unmistakable sound of Apparition.

“Oh yes, he’s gone,” small Mycroft said with a huff. “And he’s probably not going to get my Mummy, is he?”

John shook his head. He was going to kill Sherlock. Dead. Quite possibly with his bare hands.

Small Mycroft studied John suspiciously. “Are you a Muggle?”

While it might have been fun to pretend he was, John knew that with this particular child, establishing authority from the get-go was the only way to have half a shot at a positive outcome.

John slipped his fingers inside his pocket and touched his wand. “Why do you ask? Do I look like a Muggle?” he answered.

“You look rather ordinary,” answered the boy. “And your flat mate is clearly a Wizard – he looked quite magical and he obviously Apparated away just a few minutes ago.”

“Well, ordinary or not, I’m a Wizard,” John said. “I’m also a doctor – a Muggle doctor. That’s why we live in this dodgy Muggle flat.”

“It isn’t very sanitary either,” Mycroft complained, kicking aside one of Sherlock’s dirty socks that had somehow ended up balled up in the sitting room. “You’d think a doctor’s flat would be tidier.”

John rather agreed with the boy, but kept his expression neutral as he bent and picked up the offending sock and tossed it onto Sherlock’s chair. “We’re busy,” he said. “I work odd hours at the clinic and Sherlock works with the police – he’s a sort of detective.”

“You mean an Auror,” the child said, rolling his eyes. 

“Nope. Not an Auror. He works with the Muggle police.”

“Is that where he went, then? Just now? To Scotland Yard?”

“No – he went to Hogwarts. He teaches a special class there on Muggle crime solving. When he gets back, he can tell you all about what he does.”

“I don’t care what he does. I’m going to be in the Ministry when I grow up – the Ministry of Magic, not the Muggle Ministry. Muggles are dull, and most of them rather stupid. Father’s a Muggle, but he’s more clever than most, and of course he has Mummy and she’s quite smart. We don’t do magic at home, though, because Mummy wants me to use my brain first and magic only for emergencies. But sometimes I can’t help it – something will be out of place in the sitting room, or I’ll have a tear in my trousers or a spot on my shirt and poof! My magic makes it all right again without me meaning to do anything!”

John gave Mycroft what he hoped was an understanding smile. Keeping one’s rooms and one’s person tidy was not exactly typical accidental magic, but John wisely didn’t point that out.

“Are you quite certain you’re a Wizard?” Small Mycroft climbed up onto a chair at the table and started playing with Sherlock’s microscope.

John sighed. Sherlock was going to kill him for letting Mycroft touch his precious microscope. However, Sherlock wasn’t here, and had willingly abandoned the flat leaving John and Mycroft alone here.

“I’m going to make tea. Would you like a glass of milk?”

“Tea for me,” the child said, eye still pressed against the eyepiece. “What _are_ these things, anyway?”

_Oh shit!_ Sherlock had embarked on an odd experiment a week ago, and had been collecting his own ejaculate every morning to determine if sleep, volume of liquids ingested or non-prescription medications affected the sperm’s motility. 

“Pond water,” John said. “And now you see why you should never drink it.”

“I wouldn’t drink pond water. It’s unsanitary,” Mycroft said with a child-sized snort. 

John, who’d gone into the kitchen to make the tea, regarded the tray with a critical eye. Talk about unsanitary.

“If you’re _really_ a Wizard, you can just _conjure_ tea, you know.” Child Mycroft’s voice was nearly as supercilious as grown-up Mycroft’s.

Well, then. 

John unplugged the kettle and took a deep breath. Why the hell was _he_ left here taking care of someone else’s problem? He wasn’t responsible for Mycroft’s current predicament, nor should he be responsible for caring for him while Sherlock went about his business. _He_ had things to do too. Cleaning, for instance. And shopping for Mrs. Hudson. And baking the shortbread. And while he was out shopping, why not just buy the damn shortbread then meet Greg for a few pints while someone _else_ dealt with Mycroft?

And then, John had an idea. 

“I have an idea,” he said a moment later, standing in the kitchen doorway and smiling pleasantly at Mycroft. “Let’s go out for tea.”

“I knew it. You can’t conjure tea because you’re a Muggle,” the boy said with a long-suffering sigh.

“I _choose_ not to conjure tea,” John said, keeping his voice level and eerily calm. “I enjoy the process of making tea myself.” He walked around the table and stood behind Mycroft’s chair, pulling it out. “Hop down. We’re going to go out.”

The boy gave a great sigh but got off the chair and stood, arms crossed before him again. “I don’t suppose we’re going home,” he said.

John’s reached for his hand.

“I don’t need you to hold my hand!” Mycroft exclaimed. “I don’t think you even washed it! You’ve probably had it in _pond water!_ ”

“Actually, you _do_ need me to hold it,” John corrected as he turned on the spot and with a respectably soft _crack_ , Apparated them both out of 221B.

_TBC_


	2. Detention with Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John takes Mycroft to Hogwarts, Minerva keeps Mycroft occupied, John meets a dragon keeper and Sherlock gets Jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really am going to have to write something serious after this one! One more chapter after this to tie it all up.

When John Watson, already weary of child Mycroft, made the snap decision to prove he was not a Muggle once and for all by Apparating them both to the gates of Hogwarts, he never once considered that the child had never before experienced Apparition.

They landed precisely where he meant to take them, dead-center in a wide swath of grass – the designated Apparition zone – a few meters from the gate. He let go of Mycroft’s hand when he had his footing, and the child immediately teetered, fell over onto his side, curled up into a foetal position, and let out an unholy scream.

It was not the last time John would hear that scream that day.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” Mycroft screeched as a confused John hovered over him, fighting with his natural aversion to close physical proximity to this particular Holmes brother.

“Haven’t you Apparated before?” he asked. “With you mum? To Diagon Alley?”

Mycroft had rolled onto his belly and was scrabbling away from him. He sat up when he was far enough away to evade John’s assistance, and fixed John with a death glare. “I already _told_ you,” he said. slipping into full lecture mode, “we don’t use magic _at home_! And do I _look_ seventeen?”

“Look – I’m sorry. I had no idea. Most children….”

“I’M NOT MOST CHILDREN!”

And with that, he pounded his small hands on the ground and proceeded to throw a spectacular tantrum while John stood by helplessly, fingering his wand and wondering how long a tantrum had to proceed before one was justified in ending it with a Petrificus Totalus.

“Problem, Dr. Watson?”

John jumped. He hadn’t heard the headmistress approach through the racket, but had never been happier to see her.

“Harry Potter brought him to us just before Sherlock left for his class,” John shouted over the tantrum. He winced as Mycroft let out a scream so shrill it rattled his eardrums. “It’s Mycroft Holmes – got between a prisoner with a wand and the Auror he was trying to curse.

Professor McGonagall turned her gaze on the source of the noise. She didn’t look unduly concerned that the current Muggle-Magical Liaison was now a six-year-old child. 

“And why is he…?” She motioned to Mycroft, no more words really needed.

“He thinks I tried to kill him.” John sighed. “Apparently, he’s never Apparated before.”

Minerva’s eyebrows shot up. “And where is Mr. Potter?”

“Gone back to the Ministry to sort things out with the Potions Master and Curse Breaker who’ve they’ve brought in to sort _him_ out,” John answered. “Look – I’m sorry for bringing him here but Sherlock just took off and left him with me. He’s out of sorts – wants his Mum.”

He whispered “Mum” just as Mycroft stopped screaming to actually breathe.

“MUMMY!!”

“I don’t know a thing about children,” John admitted.

This was not news to Minerva. 

They watched the child together for a long moment as he pounded his small fists into the grass.

“Adults are simply grown up children, Dr. Watson,” she said at last. “And for good or for ill, I expect you know this particular former-adult well enough to know what might motivate him out of a tantrum.”

John laughed. “Locking up dissidents?” he suggested.

“Fresh out of dissidents here,” Minerva said. She shook her head as Mycroft began pulling up fistfuls of grass, but she was clearly more amused than upset. “But I do have an idea – meet me in my office as soon as you get him sorted – I have a detention to run and he’ll be a great asset. I’ll keep him busy while you mind your partner – I do hate leaving Professor Holmes unsupervised. The last time you stayed home on a Saturday morning, he dug up a crup Hagrid buried weeks before and the children dissected it on the faculty table in the Great Hall.”

She shook her head in resignation – Sherlock’s class was far too popular for her to can him at this point - then turned and walked purposefully back toward the castle, leaving him to deal with his charge.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to see a giant Squid?” he asked when Mycroft took a short rest for another gulp of air.

“Ick,” sobbed the boy.

“How about a real giant then?”

“Giants eat children!”

The situation resolved itself when Mycroft declared he had to pee. John suspected that the image of Mycroft holding himself and hopping up and down would stay with him until he took his dying breath, and might even be enough to conjure his Patronus.

ooOOOoo

The trip to the Headmistress’ came on the heels of a visit to one of the castle’s ancient bathrooms. The child had struggled to _not_ be impressed by the castle, hiding his rather obvious awe behind praises of his own intended school – Beauxbatons. Even as they passed the magnificent hourglasses, climbed the impressive marble staircase, ducked behind mysterious tapestries and, at last, stepped past the guardian gargoyle onto the spiral stairway, the child spouted one haughty statement after another.

“The castle has obviously gone downhill since Mummy was here.”

“Those suits of armour are terribly dusty. And I don’t believe they’re historically accurate…”

“Beauxbatons doesn’t count house points. Beauxbatons has a system based on individual merit.”

Even on the stairway, a magical artifact so confusing it was senseless to even try to understand how it worked, the child complained. 

“This is all for show. There’s really no need to spin around in circles when there’s plenty of space for a traditional stairway.”

 

Minerva intercepted them at the top of the spiral stairs. “Running late?” she asked as she took a firm hold on Mycroft’s hand and, ignoring John completely, said, “I am told you are rather strict about rules, young Mr. Holmes.” They stepped back on the stairway, which had reversed itself to take them right back down again. “I’m to oversee a detention now – three third-years were caught harassing a group of first-years. They seem to think that the younger children should do their bidding.” She walked purposefully down a corridor with Mycroft in tow and John trailing behind. “I was hoping, Mr. Holmes, to teach them a lesson and let you boss them around for a bit.”

Had Mycroft not just used the loo, John was sure he would have wet himself with joy. 

“I’m rather good at that, actually,” he said, his chest expanding proudly. “We should give them toothbrushes, and have them start with the smelly old loo nearest the castle doors…”

John grinned. It wasn’t at all surprising that Mycroft had started out hands-on, though his adult style would be to assign the task of creative punishment with a phone call – fait accompli. 

When Minerva and Mycroft turned into the Transfiguration classroom, John held back and considered his options. The detention would last at least until lunch, and possibly longer. In the meantime, Sherlock’s class was well on its way in the Great Hall, and Sherlock had enlisted John to play the victim by lying motionless on the cold stone floor for two hours.

The very same Sherlock who’d abandoned him in 221B with a de-aged Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock might _need_ his help, but he certainly didn’t _deserve_ it.

Decision made, John turned around and headed out of the castle, giving the doors of the Great Hall a very wide berth.

ooOOOoo

The day was as fine a fall day as Scotland had to offer, and John took the opportunity to breathe in the clean-smelling air as it rolled off the lake. His eyes soon moved from the lake to the Quidditch stands. The first Quidditch game would be coming up shortly, so the teams would certainly be practicing today, taking their turns on the pitch as the day progressed.

He was climbing the stands a few minutes later, instinctively ducking as he heard the tell-tale _zing_ as the Snitch passed close by, followed by the blur of a young girl on a very fast broom.

“Good reflexes. You played, didn’t you?” called out a voice above him.

John raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and found himself staring into a vaguely familiar face with very recognizable red hair.

“Charlie?”

“Watson?”

He’d not seen Charlie Weasley in years. True – he’d contacted him to retrieve his wand once he’d moved back in with Sherlock, but Charlie had sent it back to him via Muggle post, as requested. He climbed the remaining stairs, hand outstretched and wide smile on his face, but Charlie grabbed his hand and pulled him into a hug.

“Never thought I’d see this day,” Charlie said as they settled down to watch Gryffindor practice. “I thought Holmes’ stint as Muggle Studies professor was over – what brings you here?”

“He’s doing a weekend Muggle crime solving class,” John said, glancing back reflexively toward the castle. “I’m supposed to be helping him out today by playing the corpse, but I’m skiving off class.”

Charlie laughed. “Sitting out in the sun watching Quidditch seems a whole lot better than lying on the castle floor.”

“Definitely.” John watched the chasers as they drilled, tossing the Quaffle to and fro in a complicated pattern. “They’re good.” He gestured out toward the students. “You don’t have….?”

Charlie laughed again, and gave John a friendly grin. “Me? Kids? No – not exactly my area.” He winked, and John smiled. 

Not his area. Right.

“I’ve got a niece and a nephew on the team this year. I’m up from the reserve for a couple weeks on holiday and thought I’d come out and watch them play since I’ll have to go back to Romania before their first game.”

John relaxed against the bleacher behind him, elbows resting on the bench. He and Charlie chatted companionably, and John found that it was far easier than he’d imagined to ease back into their friendship at this distance from the devastation of Voldemort’s reign and the Final Battle.

As the Gryffindors ended practice with a dozen laps at full throttle an hour later, Charlie and John stood up and stretched.

“I’d better get back to the castle,” John said, eying the Ravenclaws who were waiting to take the pitch. He wouldn’t mind staying a bit longer, but Sherlock didn’t even know he was here, and he wasn’t about to let him leave the castle without assuming responsibility for Mycroft. Knowing Sherlock, he’d find some excuse to stay out of 221B for days to avoid having to deal with his de-aged brother.

“It was great seeing you, John. Look – Mum’s having everyone over tomorrow afternoon before I go back on Tuesday. Why don’t you come? You can bring Sherlock – from what I’ve heard about him, he’d love to poke around the place and see what makes a Wizarding family tick. And it would be like a thousand birthday wishes come true for Dad – he’d keep him entertained while we get a game going.” He nodded in the general direction of the pitch, and John grinned. Suddenly, it seemed like a fabulous idea to introduce Sherlock to the Burrow. 

“We’d love to come – are you sure it’s all right with your mum?” 

“Do you _remember_ Mum?” laughed Charlie. “Of course it’s all right – it’s my party, isn’t it, and she told me to invite my friends. Two o’clock, then?”

“Two o’clock,” agreed John. “See you tomorrow, then.”

As John made his way back to the castle, he mentally tucked away the invitation, deciding to deal with Sherlock once the Mycroft problem was resolved. It was past eleven thirty, and Sherlock’s class lasted until noon. He’d have time to track down Minerva and Mycroft and convince Minerva to hand Mycroft directly over to Sherlock. Then he’d Apparate back to 221B, go out to get a birthday gift for Mrs. Hudson and, instead of hurrying back to the flat to babysit, meet Greg or Mike at the pub for an afternoon pint or three. And if Greg or Mike turned him down, he’d find a pub Sherlock had never heard of and sit and watch football until bedtime, even if he had to go through a half dozen pints in the meantime. It was a good plan. A solid plan.

It was a plan meant to be broken.

ooOOOoo

He knew there was trouble before he stepped foot inside the castle.

The whining. The wailing. The high-pitched screeching. 

And it obviously wasn’t all coming from Mycroft.

The child was standing mid-way up the great staircase, hands on his ears, eyes closed and emitting a sound so high-pitched that John could only just register it. Above him, Peeves spun in tight laps near the ceiling, holding what looked to be a goldfish bowl, and squealing with delight. The headmistress was drying off three sopping wet students, all of them holding toothbrushes.

“The headmistress is trying to smooth it over, Mycroft, but you deserve the truth. I’m your BROTHER, your _little_ brother, and you’re supposed to be the QUIET one.” Sherlock’s voice rose, magically amplified, from somewhere behind John before he was able to process the entire chaotic scene. “And I very much doubt your pompous grown-up self shed a SINGLE tear when Dumbledore _actually_ died years and years ago so stop pretending he was your best friend and get _on_ with things!”

Sherlock was paying no attention at all to Peeves, a very dangerous oversight indeed. In a move so unexpected that Sherlock had no time to take evasive action, Peeves made a beeline from the stairway toward Sherlock and upended the goldfish bowl over his head. 

John turned in time to see Sherlock, sputtering, pluck a goldfish out of his hair and drop it into the hands of one of the students standing beside him.

“I ASKED FOR A PUPPY NOT A BROTHER!”

Alright then. Mycroft had obviously discovered that he’d somehow jumped ahead half a lifetime, that Albus Dumbledore was dead and that Sherlock Holmes was his brother.

And apparently, even the prospect of lording it over older children armed with toothbrushes hadn’t been enough to completely take the sting off.

To summarise, he wasn’t taking it well.

“Ah – Dr. Watson. There you are.” Minerva dismissed her detention students with a wave of her hand, raised her wand to throw up a sound barrier around Mycroft, and turned to face John, arms crossed across her chest, leaving no question as to who was in charge here. “I admit I made a tactical error – young Mr. Holmes discovered the trophy room while the students were cleaning the bathroom. He saw one of the memorials in honor of Headmaster Dumbledore, Confused, he confirmed the current year with one of the students, then started screaming. This drew the attention of Professor Holmes, who came out to investigate. His class followed .” She frowned at that, and her frown had the same affect on John as being confronted unexpectedly with the barrel of a gun. He squelched a shiver as she continued. “Young Mycroft heard a student call Sherlock Professor Holmes and…well….”

“She told him I was his uncle,” Sherlock said, stepping forward. “He had a fit – he assumed I am his caretaker now because his parents are _dead_.”

“I suggested we send for his mother.” Minerva’s voice was icy. “I admit, having had time to consider, that bringing in his mother might traumatize him given that she’s well into her sixties now.”

Sherlock began to say something, but the headmistress simply spoke louder, ignoring him. “However, the long and the short of it is that he’s not my problem. Dr. Watson, as much as I appreciate all you do to make this situation workable,” – here she indicated Sherlock and his many gawking students – “I’ve seen enough of all of you this weekend. I am not your babysitter.” She waved her hands at the crowd of gawking students. “Disperse – all of you.”

She waited a moment for the crowd to scatter, then started regally up the staircase. When she reached Mycroft, she lifted the sound barrier shield and bent to whisper something in the child’s ear.

The ear-piercing shriek that had escaped as soon as she lowered the shield faded into a quiet sob and a stifled gulp. The headmistress fished in her pocket for a handkerchief and held it to the child’s nose and he blew into it obediently. She tucked it away, still conferring quietly with the child, who nodded sagely as she spoke to him again. His gaze wandered over to John and Sherlock as she patted him on the shoulder and turned away.

“You’re not getting out of this,” John warned Sherlock as Mycroft eyed them appraisingly, then started down the stairs toward them. 

“What is he _singing_?” asked Sherlock.

“Honeydukes, Honeydukes, hon-hon-honey-Honeydukes,” sang the child, halting in front of them and looking up at Sherlock rather smugly. “Professor McGonagall says you are to take me directly to Honeydukes and buy me whatever I want and I want it all.”

“Do you?” quipped John.

“Yes, and afterwards, _you’re_ to teach me to ride a broom. The Ravenclaws are on the pitch now but they’re the last ones today. There are trainer brooms in the locker room and the headmistress figures those won’t be too fast for Sherlock.”

“For Sherlock?” John’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. 

“Of course. Apparently, he needs remedial broom lessons. I expect I’ll be a natural at it, so a fast broom will do.”

“Why aren’t you upset any longer that it’s 2017 and your mum is an elderly lady?” asked Sherlock. 

“Because the Aurors will have it all sorted out in no time – the headmistress promised me. She told me to enjoy being a child again and to take _full advantage_ of it while it lasted.”

“But…”

“I think we should hold hands,” said Mycroft decisively, taking Sherlock’s hand in his right and John’s in his left and tugging them through the castle doors. 

“You smell like singed hair and dragon dung,” Sherlock said a few minutes later as they passed the Hogwarts gates. 

“Do I?” said John. “That’s odd.” 

“It’s not odd if you’ve been hugging a dragon tamer,” 

“Or helping Hagrid in the garden,” countered John.

Sherlock reached over with his free hand to pluck something off the shoulder of John’s jumper. He held up a single strand of hair, fully six inches long. It glistened in the sun.

“Hagrid was in the Great Hall with me all morning,” Sherlock said. “And I think I’d have noticed if he’d dyed his hair red.”

“Come _on_!” insisted Mycroft, tugging on their hands to remind them that Honeydukes was not getting any closer at this rate.

“Charlie – the unmarried Weasley. He kept your wand for you all those years. Here for – hmm. Quidditch practice. Not his own children – obviously. Nieces or nephews. Or both. You had a reunion. Talked about old times. Made plans for a pint at the Leaky Cauldron and wanted to be sure I didn’t run off without Mycroft. Well, I have news for you, Dr. Watson.” His voice had lowered to that dangerous pitch that John found as stimulating as a surprise shag in the shower. “I have plans for you this evening – plans that do not include brawny dragon trainers who smell of dung!”

John didn’t argue. Sherlock often strayed from the obvious when he was jealous. It was one of his most endearing qualities.

“He’s really not that brawny,” he said. “But you’ll see for yourself tomorrow. We’re going to dinner at the Burrow.”

“Yea!” exclaimed Mycroft. He skipped a few paces then looked over his shoulder back at John. “What’s a Burrow?”


End file.
